


Disciple

by zaphodsgirl



Series: Forgive Me, Father [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Egregious Misuse of the Confessional, M/M, Pining Castiel, Priest Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-30 00:03:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13938297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zaphodsgirl/pseuds/zaphodsgirl
Summary: Unsure of where he stands after his encounter with Dean, Father Castiel takes an unexpected confession.





	Disciple

**Author's Note:**

> I am forever grateful for friends like [superhoney](http://archiveofourown.org/users/superhoney/pseuds/superhoney), who willingly beta read thing like this when they are bored.

Castiel wakes from a light doze with a start. He's confused by his surroundings at first, but looking down at the figure beside him feels like the universe realigning.

"I have to go," he whispers to Dean, caressing his face lightly. Dean murmurs something in response that he can't make out, and then goes still again. 

Castiel rolls away slowly, letting Dean's hand fall from the hip it was grasping as he slept. He pauses, waiting, and then rolls completely off the bed when he's sure Dean is still sleeping soundly. He dresses quietly, eyes never leaving the form bathed in twilight amongst the rumpled bedding, then backs out of the room to tiptoe quietly down the stairs.

The drive back to the rectory feels impossibly long, and for the first time he doesn't feel at home in his normal surroundings there. He knows he should take a shower, but he's not yet ready to wash the scent of Dean off his skin. He strips completely, crawling into bed and putting one hand under his pillow to caress the cover of the bible that rests there. The twin-size bed feels enormous in its emptiness, and he wishes he didn't have to worry about how many tongues would wag at the fact that Father Novak did not return to the rectory for the evening.

He wants to call Dean the next day, but he's not sure if that would be acceptable. Instead he stares at the austere black phone on his desk, willing it to ring for almost an hour before it occurs to him that Dean doesn't have the phone number. He resolves to find a way to slip it to him after the Sunday service, and that helps him focus on other things throughout the day.

As he performs the Sacrament of Reconciliation that afternoon he feels the first real pangs of guilt, wondering if he should be seeking his own absolution even as he bestows it upon others.

By the Sunday service he's filled with nervous energy that has nothing to do with his planned sermon, and he wonders if it shows on his face. He's always found comfort in his station, in his religion, but now the only comfort he wants is in Dean's arms. He feels like a false prophet as he stands at the altar giving his sermon about chastity and grace, imagining the heat from a pair of green eyes that he dare not look for in the congregation, lest he find himself with an erection under his robes.

It's not until the service is over, the parishioners filing past him in a steady stream, that he realizes Dean isn't there. He's never missed a service since Castiel first became aware of him, even before they'd gotten to be on friendly terms. Castiel manages to keep his faux smile in place, even though he feels his face will crack from tension and leave his jaw on the floor. Eventually the vestibule is empty, and he leans his head against the heavy oak doors as he closes them behind the last person. Shoving off, he drags his leaden feet down the length of the nave, a journey that seems a thousand times longer than it ever has before. He practically stumbles into the vestry, sagging to the floor just inside the door and shoving it closed with his foot.

It's not until that moment, lying on the worn carpet and contemplating the ceiling, that Castiel realizes just how much he has invested in Dean. He's grown so accustomed to having him there in the pews each Sunday, surreptitiously stealing looks at his rapt face. He would savor them, like the fine scotch he sometimes indulged in late at night, a long ago gift from Balthazar that he's been nursing for years. Weeks of stolen glimpses from the altar, and then once Dean approached him after a service for the first time, months of trying not to stare at the shape of that mouth. 

Now he's had the opportunity to do more than look. He's touched, and he's tasted, and now as he lies here on the floor he's terrified that maybe that was the only chance he had to do so.

Why hadn't Dean been there today?

Not for the first time, he goes over every moment of their evening together in his mind. He was certain when he left that there would be the opportunity for more, but two days have passed and now he's not so sure. Does Dean regret what happened? Is he sitting at home, wallowing in guilt over what transpired between them? 

Castiel forces himself to sit up, and then to stand, leaning against the wall for support before he begins to remove his vestments.

His real worry is that Dean has spent months dreaming of his conquest of Castiel, only to find the reality of it wanting. 

That evening the good book brings him no comfort, neither with what is in its pages nor the soft caress of the leather as he strokes the cover with his fingers, willing himself to go to sleep.

Monday morning brings no respite from his worry, and as he trudges through his daily responsibilities he wonders if there's a way to rectify the situation he now finds himself in. Except, he's still not entirely sure just _what_ the situation is. 

On Tuesday he stares at the phone on his desk instead of working on his sermon for over an hour. 

On Wednesday, he stares at it for two hours, murmuring the words of Joshua under his breath: _be strong and of good courage._

On Thursday he finally sighs and picks it up, dialing the number he committed to memory long before he had any reason to use it. He hears the connection being made, the low buzz of air across the lines, then the electronic burr of the ring. He closes his eyes as he pictures a distant phone, the handset in its cradle vibrating ever so slightly with each jarring announcement into the atmosphere that someone is calling.

The last time he'd done this, less than a week ago, there had been three rings before Dean picked up. There's a fourth ring and he tenses up, wondering if the answering machine will get the call instead, not knowing what he'll say if that happens, but the fifth ring comes before he thinks of anything. His shoulders start to sag a little as the sixth ring echoes in his ears, and by the seventh he slumps against the desk. He can faintly hear yet another ring as the handset makes the journey away from his ear and across the desk back into its cradle, dropping into it with a hard sound that feels like judgement.

He doesn't know what to do. His experience with human interaction is outside of the normal social construct, and there is nothing for him to draw on to give him guidance on how to proceed. Worse, there is no one that he can ask for guidance without revealing his transgression, the betrayal of his office and the weakness of his flesh. 

When Friday comes he considers going back to Dean's house, showing up at the door as though they've a regular appointment, feigning naivety at Dean's sure surprise when he knocks on the door. 

It's the look he imagines Dean will have, the unwelcome demeanor he's sure to project, that sends Castiel to bed early instead of out to his car to make the drive across town. He is resolved to cherish the memory of the time they had together and try not to let it be tainted by whatever has driven Dean away, and he resigns himself to having only those few hours of blissful sin to hold close to himself in the dark. It is more, he tells himself, than he ever thought he would have. He can use those hours as a tool to enrich the fantasy life he's long entertained, the unrealistic musings he's often indulged in of meeting Dean as a simple man: that they would meet as normal couples do, have coffee and dinner and hold hands, learning each other's body language through those banal activities that are elevated to the sublime when attraction and adoration are added into the mix. He just has more information now on which to build these daydreams, can supply the actual look of lustful heat that Dean gives him instead of one imagined, can properly fantasize the feel of lips pressed against his skin in intimate places.

He tries to convince himself that this will be enough.

Saturday morning dawns rainy and bleak, suiting his mood as he goes through his daily routine. It's been over a week now since Castiel found all of his fantasies realized, and the collar around his throat chafes him in a way it never has before as he readies himself for the afternoon Reconciliation. How can he give resolution to those who seek to confess, when he himself has sinned above them all? 

The time he spends cloistered in the confessional does nothing to ease him. Three parishioners come seeking absolution for petty actions, older members of the congregation who attend to the Sacrament more out of long practiced habit than obligation, and long after they're gone he can feel the weight of his solitude pressing upon him as he sits in the confined space with nothing but his thoughts. He dozes lightly, unable to resist after sleeping poorly the last week, and so is startled when someone enters the booth on his left. 

He glances quickly at his watch, thankful that the hours of Reconciliation are almost at an end, and he'll be able to retreat back to his rooms after this last confession. He slides back the partition and gives his standard greeting without so much as a glance through the screen. 

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned," says a voice he knows too well, and he sits up with a gasp to peer at Dean's head, bowed over his clasped hands.

"Dean," he croaks out, unsure of what to say. Dean has never attended confession in all the time Castiel has been with the parish. It's not unusual -- most people don't bother anymore, except maybe once a year -- but Dean seems so out of place there that Castiel can't manage his shock. Neither moves for several minutes, and Castiel considers how this tableau is the reverse of what it seems: Dean in a penitent stance seeking solace from a sinner disguised behind a cloak of righteousness. "Why are you here?" he finally manages, his mind racing with the possibilities and not enjoying any of them.

"Don't you want to hear my confession?" Dean says it quietly without looking up, but Castiel doesn't miss the way his hands clench, the skin across the knuckles growing white with tension. He closes his eyes for a moment and swallows heavily before he answers.

"You may unburden yourself."

"Oh, but I want to unburden _you_ , Father," Dean says, finally raising his head, his gaze piercing even in the dim light of the confessional. Castiel can feel the heat of it even through the screen. "Why didn't you come back, Castiel?"

"I wasn't sure," he breathes out, "I wasn't sure you wanted me to. When you didn't come to service on Sunday, I thought..." but a low chuckle interrupts him. 

"There's no longer any reason for me to attend mass on Sunday," Dean says, shaking his head with a smile. "There was only one thing I ever wanted to get out of it, and now I have." He grins wickedly, his expression out of place in a setting such as this. "I'm not even Catholic."

"So you're not," Castiel's mouth goes dry as all his fears realign into hopes, "you're not overwhelmed with guilt over what we did together?"

"Of course I'm _overwhelmed_ with something, Cas, but guilt ain't it." He leans closer, and Castiel can almost hear his lips brushing against the screen, he's so close to it. "I've spent the week musing over all seven sins, Father, and I'm certain I've experienced them all."

It's like a gear shifts within him, and everything that confines him is stripped away. His collar, his vestments, the sanctity of the confessional booth are all set aside. It dawns on him that this is when he can simply be Castiel: a man with a secret lover, the temptation of an illicit tryst, and an implicit invitation in the dark. 

"Tell me your sins," he replies, his voice gone husky, and he sees Dean shiver as he hums something to himself. "You've experienced...gluttony?" It's not the sin he wants to visit, not be a long shot, but something tells him to wait. 

"I drank to excess. After you didn't come back the next night, I drowned myself in whiskey. That led me to envy. I was envious of the entire congregation that laid eyes on you that Sunday, when I couldn't bring myself to attend. To see you, but not touch you as I had in the dark."

"Did that fill you with wrath?" he guesses, wishing he could adjust his position to be more comfortable, feeling the fabric of his pants grow tighter. 

"No, not then. I felt proud, then. Proud that no one else had seen you like that, vulnerable and naked beneath them. That only I knew the firm grasp of your fingers, the look on your face as you fell apart under my hands." Castiel shifts, clutching his knees. "That made me greedy for more of you, or filled with wrath that you hadn't come back, and if neither of those I was lethargic and sad, filled with sloth. It's as I said, Father. I've had them all just this week alone."

"You're missing one," Castiel points out. He wants Dean to be the one to say it, wants to feel the power of that admission. 

"Oh, I'm not, though," Dean replies, placing his palms against the screen to frame the shadow of his face. "It's always present, simmering under my skin. It keeps me constantly on edge, and there's nothing that can sate it. No matter how much I touch myself, I can't make it stop."

"Dean," he breathes out, too overcome to play this game anymore. "Tell me what you want."

"I want you to touch yourself, _Father_. I want you to feel the same frustration I've felt all week, when I've wanted your hands on me and only had my own."

Castiel's hands move as if compelled, and he can hear the rasp of Dean's breath increase as he slowly lifts the hem of his robe up above his belt. He pulls the end of it from the loops, keeping his eyes on the screen as he unfastens it before opening the button of his trousers. The rasp of the zipper seems like a roar in the quiet of the booth. Dean bites his lip as he watches Castiel free his semi-hard length from the confines of his boxers, but exposure to the cool air and Dean's heated gaze have him fully erect in moments. It emboldens him, and he runs a single finger up the length of his shaft from base to tip. His cock jumps in response to Dean's ragged exhale, and he takes it lightly in the circle of his fist. His hands are dry but his palms are smooth, the rough calluses from a childhood on the farm softened from years of disuse and the endless caress of vellum pages. 

He shifts his hips lower on the seat, relieving the pressure on his scrotum as he strokes himself for Dean's pleasure. He can't tear his eyes away from the patterned view of Dean's face through the screen, and though it's too dim to see Castiel imagines his pupils are dilated with want, black orbs filled with nothing but the sight of his lover's illicit pleasure in this sacred place.

"Does it feel good?" Dean asks in a breathless whisper, and Castiel whimpers. "Do you wish that hand was mine?" Castiel nods, holding himself more firmly as he pulls at his heated flesh, the purpling head getting shiny with a few drops of secretion. He sees Dean lick his lips, and he groans.

"It feels..." he starts, but suddenly can't find the words in his vast vocabulary to describe it. "I want...Dean, I want you."

"I should tell you not to come," Dean says heatedly, shifting on his side of the booth, and his hands curl slightly against the screen. "I should make you feel as frustrated as I've felt, leave you unfulfilled and desperate."

"No, please," Cas stutters out, his hips jerking. The dangerous energy around this assignation gives it an intensity he's never felt before, and he's already so close, even after a few minutes. "Please, Dean, I promise, I won't leave you like that again, please." 

Dean meets his eyes then, and Castiel's hand moves even faster, flirting with the edge but unable to tumble over it. Their gazes are locked together, and Castiel can't define anything in Dean's except the inevitable.

"Come for me, Father," he says huskily, and Castiel cries out as he erupts all over his hand and the exposed skin of his stomach. He looks at the ceiling, trying to calm himself, to catch his breath. In his peripheral vision he sees Dean's hands fall away from the screen.

"Dean, I..."

"You can tell me tonight, when you come to the house."

Then suddenly Dean is gone.

Castiel glances down at the mess he's made of himself, then flips his robe down to cover it. He glances at his watch. This Reconciliation ended ten minutes ago, but there's another one waiting for him on the other side of town, so he hurries to clean up and change. He can feel the anticipation thrumming through his veins, barely sated by his recent orgasm, and knows that he won't tell Dean anything when he arrives there.

He'll show him. 


End file.
